The Diary of a Muggle-ish Witch, Sorta
by Onesmartcookie78
Summary: Sequel to "Mad and Madder". What is fantasy but an extension of reality? Take a dive into the diary of a muggle (that would be me, Anastasiya Zolnerowich) because I am absolutely, positively sane, I swear. I went to Hogwarts, and no matter what my psychologist says, I am not mad.


The Diary of the Mad Muggle...ish

Onesmartcookie78

**A/N**: So I decided to write a sequel to **"Mad and Madder"**, finally. Can cross that off my bucket list. Please read the prequel. This will make much more sense if you do.

**Summary**: What is fantasy but an extension of reality? Take a dive into the diary of a muggle (that would be me, Anastasiya Zolnerowich) because I am absolutely, positively _sane_, I swear. I went to Hogwarts, and no matter what my psychologist says, I am _not_ mad.

**Disclaimer**: I only own Anastasiya Zolnerowich.

* * *

Dear diary, (and Riddle, if this turns into your freaky diary and starts absorbing everything I write, I will ship you with Dumbledore, I swear to God!)

Allow me to clarify; I'm not really I muggle. Or, at least I don't _think_ I am. Please note that cursive shows up as italics.

Wait, that was bad. My name is Anastasiya Nikitichna Zolnerowich, and I am absolutely, positively sane.

* * *

Right. So, like every good writing piece, I should probably label this diary. State that it's mine and all that. I hereby lovingly title this diary, on the front cover, "The Diary of the Mad Muggle...ish", "DMM" for short.

Now that that's taken care of, I am kindly going to redirect some of your readers who ignored my warning to refer back to** "Mad and Madder"**, because that's what I am and it sums up my situation relatively well.

Anyway. So, my therapist thought this diary would be good for me. Help me distinguish between "reality and the fantastical world of fantasy".

My reply? "What is fantasy but an extension of reality?"

Stumped her good and well, too.

I guess I should elaborate. None of this is making any sense. I was shooting to be a damn quantum mechanic, not a poet. Dammit, Jim, I'm a quantum mechanic, not an author!

If you understood that allusion, you can have a virtual cookie.

So last time you heard from me, things had taken a turn for the weird, yeah? I was at Hogwarts after killing a Death Eater and Tom Riddle was a professor and we were flirting and I got eight weeks worth of detentions and was Sorted into Slytherin and my-life-sucks and I used "and" too many times in this sentence and I...

Yeah.

As it so turns out, I was hallucinating. Or, rather, in a drug induced, post-surgery coma. The damn Sorting Hat told me it was real, and I was fucking dreaming. Lying arsehat. What I would give to send that crotchety, sassy, deceitful lump of cloth into the nearest furnace.

Apparently, I was hit by a car when I was walking my dog at three hundred in the morning. Anke was killed and I was taken to a hospital. A week later, I woke up from my Harry Potter dream.

Allow me to briefly summarise what happened in that reality (because I refuse to believe it was fantasy. Nothing is fantasy anymore):

1. I got a new wand. You wouldn't care what kind it is or what type of wood because, whilst it may give insight into my personality, no one feels like looking that up on the Internet.

2. I continued to use the name Joanne Rowling, because I was lying about everything, so why not?

3. Detentions with Riddle are as bad as they sound. He played Chopin and Mozart and Beethoven and Handel on his gramophone, but he still made me do shitty things for him. Like reorganise his books by genre, with a sub-section for authors of multiple titles in said genre. The authors in the genres were then arranged in alphabetical order by their last names and the titles of the books by the authors' also in alphabetical order. Does that make any sense? Not really. But that's how he wrote the directions. Oh, and I wasn't allowed to leave until I figured it out. Best of all, he made me return the bookshelf back to its original organisational system the next day, from _memory_. Luckily for his family jewels, I was allowed several days for that. When I got it wrong, though, he refused to tell me why, until I finally got it right, three days later. Also; pretty sure he was trying to look up my skirt the entire time.

4. Tutoring sucks. Riddle was a good teacher, but incredibly rude if I got something wrong (which was often) and increasingly impatient. It didn't help that my sarcasm rather made him want to snap my neck. On the other hand, my other tutors were more understanding and willing to work with me. It still took up a bloody huge amount of time though, and I had homework and detention, as mentioned in number three.

5. Riddle is a bloody fantastic snog. Relax. Stop fangasming. I wouldn't know. It was just a rumour circulating around school, like the general opinion of all the Seventh grade girls who had been a year below him when he was still in school that he was a sex god. Ridiculous, right?

6. I have no desire to find out if number five is true.

7. Number six is false.

8. As seen in number two, I lie; in this case, I did snog Riddle. Therefore, number five is false.

9. It _was_ bloody fantastic.

10. Numbers eight and nine don't mean I suddenly like him. I hate him.

And that's what happened. And then I woke up.

It's like a twisted version of _Alice in Wonderland_ featuring me as the title character, Riddle as the sociopathic and attractive Hatter and probably Dumbles as the Wonderful Wizard of Oz... Or was that-? Nope, that was _The Wizard of Oz._ In a metaphor comparing my very real experience in so-called "Wonderland" (Hogwarts), I guess Dumbledore would be... I don't know. A character. Don't ask me about elements of literature ever again, because I don't know.

Anyway. My therapist thinks that keeping this diary or journal or log or whatever people call it these days would be a good idea. She asked me if I thought it would be beneficial to my mental health, to which I replied: "You tell me, you're the one with an M.D."

She looked at the certificate hanging on the wall like she's never seen it before. I'm beginning to think I should find a new psychologist.

Well, I've got what I wanted to say off my chest. Drop by later for my next entry.


End file.
